Page 71 of Black Sea

I frowned, reflecting on that gloomy thought. What if Roxior, upon discovering my vulnerability, decided to remove my silver collar and replace it with a gold one, earning much more money than I would ever earn for him as a gladiator?

Was I willing to risk being turned into a prostitute, rather than watching Amlach giving himself to anyone who desired him?

He let out a tired sigh. “Mine is a good plan,” he said, crossing his arms. “And you’d see it, if you weren’t so blinded by jealousy.”

I glared at him and raised my voice by several octaves. “There is nothing beautiful in lying with another person without love.”

“You only say that because you’ve never fucked in your entire life,” he remarked in a peppery tone. “And you probably never will,” he muttered, sidestepping me to the bed.

“How dare you, human!” I shouted, chasing after him.

“You know what, Elf?” he said sharply, suddenly turning around and moving closer with a wrathful look. “If you find my methods so deplorable, open those pretty legs of yours and become a whore yourself, so we’ll see which one of us gets results first.”

I punched him in the face.

A punch so powerful that he staggered back and collapsed onto the edge of the mattress.

A punch so unexpected that a strange pain spread from my knuckles.

Shocked, I stared at my trembling hand as if it didn’t belong to me. Throughout my life, I had never been prone to aggression. Not during the countless quarrels with Araton or the most heated discussions with my parents. Not even on the battlefields, where I had always just defended myself without succumbing to the evil surrounding me.

I was an elf, a creature brimming with goodness and light.

Yet, I began to sense a raw violence surging within me. Black and warm and dense and so . . . intoxicating.

Horrified, I lifted my wide eyes to Amlach.

He wiped the small drop of blood from his split lip with his thumb, his yearning gaze challenging me to hit him again. Showing how much he wanted me in that exact moment.

Yet, there was something more. An emotion I couldn’t make out quickly enough, as it disappeared in an instant.

What I knew, however, was that if I stepped closer to him now, it would mean the end.

That’s why I immediately dashed out of the room.

43

I crossed the large, sandy, gravel courtyard, aware of the astonished, leering looks of the guards in training, and that my hair shone like waves of gold in the sunlight, which likely accentuated my feminine figure beneath the nightgown. Followed by the anxious glances of the slaves at work, I stepped through the barn’s porch and entered the laundry.

The women, bent over various stone or brick basins, quadrangular or circular, of differing sizes, ceased their chatter and jumped together, either dropping their wash into the water or using it as a shield.

Seeing them so afraid of me gripped my heart. I was like a monster to them—and perhaps they were right.

There was something snaking inside me. Something that didn’t belong to me and stung me and infected me.

I wanted to get rid of it.

I wanted to rinse it away.

I wanted to be clean again.

So, I concealed my still-shaking hands behind my back and attempted to offer my sincerest smile. “Good morning.”

They shared anxious looks, lips sealed, their tense bodies yearning to escape the big room.

I searched their worn faces, looking for a hint of friendship. “I was wondering if . . . if I could join you for the rest of the morning.” Their caution grew, so I quickly added, “If it’s not too much trouble, of course.”

Some of the slaves at the bottom tanks began whispering to one another. When the word ‘whore’ echoed through the gurgling of the open taps, a short, plump lady, with her salt-and-pepper hair gathered in a white bonnet, made an exasperated sound and approached me.